“He is troublesome, yes, Mage-lady, but this one has dealt with a troublesome beast before,” Lyran replied seriously. At just that moment the swordsman’s dust-brown mare lashed out with a wicked hoof, which the young man dodged with reflexive agility. He reached up and seized one of the mare’s ears and twisted it once, hard. The mare immediately resumed her good behavior. “Sometimes it would seem that the best animals are also the vilest of temper,” he continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “It then is of regrettable necessity to prove, that though they are stronger, this one has more knowledge.”
Martis mounted Tosspot, and nodded with satisfaction when his girth proved to be as tight as it looked. “I don’t think this old boy will be giving you any more trouble. From the sour look he’s wearing, I’d say he learned his lesson quite thoroughly.”
The swordsman seemed to glide into his saddle and gracefully inclined his head in thanks for the compliment. “Truly he must have more intelligence than Jesalis,” he replied, reining in his mare so that the sorceress could take the lead, “For this one must prove the truth of the lesson to her at least once a day.”
“Jesalis?” Martis asked incredulously; for the jesalis was a fragile blossom of rare perfume, and nothing about the ugly little mare could remind anyone of a flower.
“Balance, Mage-lady,” Lyran replied, so earnestly that Martis had to hide a smile. “So foul a temper has she, that it is necessary to give her a sweet name to leaven her nature.”
They rode out of the Guild hold in single file with Martis riding in the lead, since protocol demanded that the “hireling” ride behind the “mistress” while they were inside the town wall. Once they’d passed the gates, they reversed position. Lyran would lead the way as well as providing a guard, for all of Martis’ attention must be taken up by her preparations to meet with her wayward former student. Tosspot would obey his training and follow wherever the rider of Jesalis led.
This was the reason that Tosspot’s gait and reliability were worth more than gold pieces. Most of Martis’ time in the saddle would be spent in a trance-like state as she gradually gathered power to her. It was this ability to garner and store power that made her a Masterclass sorceress—for after all, the most elaborate spell is useless without the power to set it in motion.
There were many ways to accumulate power. Martis’ was to gather the little aimless threads of it given off by living creatures in their daily lives. Normally this went unused, gradually dissipating, like dye poured into a river. Martis could take these little tag-ends of energy, spin them out and weave them into a fabric that was totally unlike what they had been before. This required total concentration, and there was no room in her calculations for mistake.
Martis was grateful that Lyran was neither sullen nor inclined to chatter. She was able to sink into her magic gathering-trance undistracted by babble and undisturbed by a muddy, surly aura riding in front of her. Perhaps Ben had been right after all. The boy was so unobtrusive that she might have been riding alone. She spared one scant moment to regret faintly that she would not be able to enjoy the beauties of the summer woods and meadows they were to ride through. It was so seldom that she came this way . . .
The atmosphere was so peaceful that it wasn’t until she sensed—more than felt—the touch of the bodyguard’s hand on her leg that she roused up again. The sun was westering, and before her was a small clearing, with Lyran’s horse contentedly grazing and a small, neat camp already set up. Martis’ tent was to the west of the clearing, a cluster of boulders behind it, and the tent-flap open to the cheerful fire. Lyran’s bedroll lay on the opposite side. Jesalis was unsaddled, and her tack laid beside the bedroll. From what Martis could see, all of her own belongings had been placed unopened just inside the tent. And all had been accomplished without Martis being even remotely aware of it.
“Your pardon, Mage-lady,” Lyran said apologetically, “But your horse must be unsaddled.”
“And you can’t do that with me still sitting on him,” Martis finished for him, highly amused. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I’m perfectly capable of helping make camp.”
“The Guard-serjant made it plain to this one that you must be allowed to work your magics without distraction. Will you come down?”
“Just one moment—” There was something subtly wrong, but Martis couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Before she could say anything, however, Lyran suddenly seized her wrist and pulled her down from her saddle, just as an arrow arced through the air where she had been. Lyran gave a shrill whistle, and Jesalis threw up her head, sniffed the breeze, and charged into the trees to their left. Martis quickly sought cover in some nearby bushes, as Lyran hit the ground and rolled up into a wary crouch.
A scream from where the mare had vanished told that the horse had removed the obstacle of the archer, but he had not been alone. From under the cover of the trees stepped not one, but three swordsmen. Lyran regained his feet in one swift motion, drew the swords he wore slung across his back, and faced them in a stance that was not of any fighting style Martis recognized. He placed himself so that they would have to pass him to reach her.
The first of the assassins—Martis was reasonably sure that this was what they were—laughed and swatted at Lyran with the flat of his blade in a careless, backhanded stroke, aiming negligently for his head.
“This little butterfly is mine—we will see if he likes to play the woman he apes—” he began.
Lyran moved, lithe as a ferret. The speaker stared stupidly at the sword blade impaling his chest. Lyran had ducked and come up inside his guard, taking him out before he’d even begun to realize what the bodyguard was about.
Lyran pulled his blade free of the new-made corpse while the assassin still stood. He whirled to face the other two before the first fell to the ground.
They moved in on him with far more caution than their companion had, circling him warily to attack him from opposite sides. He fended off their assault easily, his two swords blurring, they moved so fast, his movement dance-like. But despite his skill he could seem to find no opening to make a counter-attack. For the moment all three were deadlocked. Martis chafed angrily at her feeling of helplessness—the combative magics she’d prepared were all meant to be used against another mage. To use any of the spells she knew that would work against a fighter, she’d have to reach her supplies in her saddlebags—now rather hopelessly out of reach. She found that she was sharply aware of the incongruous scent of the crushed blossoms that lay beneath the dead man’s body.
The deadlock was broken before Martis could do more than curse at her own helplessness.
Within the space of a breath, Lyran feinted at the third of the assassins, drawing the second to attack. He caught his opponent’s blade in a bind, and disarmed him with practiced ease. Then the third lunged at him, and he moved aside just enough for his blade to skim past his chest. Lyran’s left-hand blade licked out and cut his throat with the recovery of the stroke that had disarmed the second. Before Martis could blink, he continued the flow of movement before the third could fall to cut the second nearly in half with the sword in his right.
And behind him, the first dead man rose, sword in hand, and hacked savagely at the unsuspecting Lyran’s blind side. Lyran got one blade up in time to deflect the blow, but the power behind it forced him to one knee. The Undead hammered at the bodyguard, showing sorcerous strength that far exceeded his abilities in life. Lyran was forced down and back, until the Undead managed to penetrate his defenses with an under-and-over strike at his left arm.